


a good heart never went to hell

by GryfoTheGreat



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, Self-Sacrifice, Stupidity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 19:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2869388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GryfoTheGreat/pseuds/GryfoTheGreat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Good people are like candles; they burn themselves up to give others light."<br/>Sabia Hawke is an idiot, as any of her friends will tell you, with no common sense and an inferiority complex the size of the Arishok's- well, you get the idea.<br/>But the thing about her is that she gives everything she's got. Sometimes, she gives too much.<br/>So they have to give back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i think i need a bath. do you think i need a bath?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke stinks. Anders is sick of it. It goes about as well as expected.

Hawke legitimately cannot remember the last time she took a hot bath.

The last time was definitely before the Blight, and possibly long before then; the Hawkes were not well off, and Mother was always wary about overusing Beth's magic, even though Hawke made many a convincing argument based on the Chant of Light. Magic serving man, and all. Mother was not impressed. "Don't try to talk your way around me, young lady; it may work on the merchants, but it won't on me!"

So she contented herself with clandestine dips in the creek that ran through Lothering (when she last saw it it was seething with blood) and then, during those first dusty months in Kirkwall, she used the hipbath in their room after Mother and Bethany, because being clean made them smile, and sometimes that was all that kept Hawke going.

(Also because she gets the water all bloody, and no-one wants to bathe in bloody water.)

Eventually, though, she cops onto the Kirkwaller way of things, and bathes in the sea with harsh lye soap. It makes her smell like one of them, of salt and potash; Varric says you wouldn't be able to tell that she's Fereldan, but for the mabari trotting at her heels. It isn't great for her skin, though, or her hair, but they're not in a much of a state anyway; the unforgiving sun of the Free Marches has darkened her until she is almost as swarthy as her dark-eyed mother and sister, and most days she gives up her hair as a bad job and ties it back with copious amounts of string and forgets about it until Beth almost sets it ablaze with a stray fireball.

Which is why she freezes when confronted with a steaming bath in the Darktown clinic, conveniently vacated. Anders is staring at her impatiently, nose scrunched up like he's smelled something bad. Probably her. She's pretty sure that there's a piece of intestine snarled in her ponytail, and the gigantic infected slash in her thigh leaking pus probably doesn't help matters.

"Look, Anders, if you wanted to see me naked, you could have just asked."

He snorts. "No, thank you. Do you mind getting in? You smell like cat piss. Believe me, I know."

"C'mon, you know I'm a Fereldan refugee, and we all stink. You, for example." She pantomimes sniffing him. "You smell like elfroot and regret."

He actually does laugh at that, and Hawke grins in triumph, because Anders has lines around his mouth and eyes that tell her he must have smiled a lot, once.

But the levity vanishes. "What are you? A cat? Get into the water."

She gives in, because Anders doesn't have a whole lot of patience, and Justice even less. She strips without ceremony, pieces of padding and leather falling to the packed earthen floor, and stares at her almost-naked body dispassionately; she's always envied Beth's abundant curves and flawless skin. Hawke is weatherworn, patches of darkening brown and sunburnt red alternating along her limbs, not to mention the ubiquitous freckles, and could be charitably described as stocky. Compared to her sister with her plush lips and high cheekbones, Hawke looks like a child who hasn't yet lost their puppy fat.

She untangles the twine from her hair with difficulty, cursing and stamping, and her hair remains frozen in shape when it is gone; she pulls her fingers through it and finds a clump of dried viscera, which she gives to Anders with a gracious smile when he stomps over with a bowl of something oddly fragrant.

"Lovely," he mutters, shoving it into a pocket. "Show me your leg."

She hops up on a table and presents him with her diseased thigh. The laceration is deep, almost to the bone and surrounded by dirty streaks of purple and green. Poisoned, and apparently it was lucky that she dived in front of that blade; if it had hit Fenris like it was supposed to, the magebane would have reacted badly with the lyrium coursing through him and killed him on the spot.

Anders prods at it, ignoring her wince of pain. "Can't heal this," he mutters. "Risk sealing in the poison. Only thing for it."

He grabs her by the scruff of her neck like some sort of stray cat and dumps her unceremoniously into the bath, with surprising strength for a weedy mage. Another of Justice’s side-effects, she reckons, along with glowy eyes and crumbling sanity. She surfaces with a splutter and a few choice expletives, glancing down at her soaked, translucent smalls with a flush. Anders doesn't seem to notice or care, plonking himself down beside the bath and plunging his hands into the water. "What are you-" she begins, but then his hands begin to glow.

Healing magic is strange; it arcs through your body like electricity, rattling off all your aches and pains until you feel as if you are about to shatter, but when the pain reaches a certain threshold it disappears, leaving you weak-limbed and light-headed. It is never a pleasant experience.

This is different. As the light seeps from Anders' hands into the water, a feeling of warmth spreads through Hawke. Good warmth, like a ray of sun on the back of your neck, or a hot mug of tea during a cold night.

She lets out a hiss as the magic worms its way into her skin, settling into her muscles. Slowly, the weariness recedes; she feels light, and wonders how on earth she managed with all that snarled up in her back. Her puzzle-piece necklace floats up to the top of the bath, polished white winking through the slightly discoloured water; the water supply in Darktown is questionable at best, but Anders, refusing to treat ill people with dirty water, had installed some strange sort of filter to purify it.

Said mage grumbles at her. “You could have told me about your wrist.”

She raises it, and examines it with surprise; she forgot about the stone shard embedded there, hidden as it usually was by her gauntlets. Anders takes her hand and yanks it out without ceremony, ignoring her wince as her hand drops back into the water, blood curling out of the wound.

“Glitterdust,” he mutters. “Idiotic. That’s why you were getting sick, not the damned ale.” With a dismissive swish of his hand, the wound cleans itself and closes. “What else are you keeping from me?”

Hawke shrugs, and slides further down into the water with a sigh of satisfaction, her knobbly knees poking out. She feels both refreshed and immeasurably sleepy; the dingy little clinic swims, and she smells valerian. Sneaky mage probably put it into the bathwater.

But as she relaxes, Anders wilts. “What’s wrong?” she manages, her tongue oddly heavy.

“Creation magic, it…” he hesitates. “We don’t destroy the pain, we just… we take it away. Is your little finger broken?”

“Fractured, I think. ” She wiggles it experimentally, and just as she gasps, he does too. “You… you feel everything?” Images rush through her head; Isabela’s hamstrings slashed, Fenris on the wrong end of a greatsword, an arrow through Merrill’s delicate palm…

Anders had fixed them all. Did he truly feel all that pain himself?

“Yes.” He trembles as the magic reaches the laceration on her thigh and begins to burrow in. The light stutters and stops, and for a second the pain intensifies, but Anders quickly regains his control and settles.

“How… how do you stand it?”

“It’s someone else’s pain. It… makes it easier to bear.” He meets her eyes, dark with a strange sort of sorrow. “You have an awful lot of it. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t want you to worry.” She lets out a feeble laugh.

“Wouldn’t have stopped me.” He looks so horribly sad; she reaches out a hand to him, and gives him a clumsy pat, soaking his arm.

“It’s fine! I’m fine, I always am. No need to worry. I don’t need another mother. Maker knows the one I have gives me enough trouble as it is.”

Anders gazes at her for a few long moments, and then sighs, shaking his head. “You are the strangest woman I have ever met.”

“No, I’m not.” Noticing his confusion, she adds; “Merrill, remember? Cute squirrelly socially awkward maleficar? Or did I hallucinate her?”

“No, Merrill… exists.” _Unfortunately_ , she can see him adding under his breath.

“Good. She borrowed my copy of _The Bastard and the Wolf_ , and I want it back.” The words are slurred and sluggish, sliding reluctantly off her tongue.

“Go to sleep, Hawke. It’ll make my job easier.”

“Anything to make life easy,” she mumbles, and soon the clinic vanishes, replaced by the comforting unease of the Fade.

 

When Hawke awakens, the bath is lukewarm and Anders is gone; she pulls her fingers through her hair to find it washed and free of grease. She glances down at her thigh to see nothing but a pinkish ridge, where the gash used to be; when she brushes her fingers over it, there is no pain. Reluctantly, she hauls herself out of the bath and locates her clothes in a spare cupboard, stuffed in behind some ragged bandages; she’s taken to keeping spare sets of clothes and weapons in all their safe houses. In Merrill’s little house  they are in the privy, and she thinks they’re in with the wine in the cellar of Fenris’ mansion. Shedding her sodden underthings, she pulls on the clean garments and her fur-lined boots, which came all the way from Ferelden with her.

Just as she’s decent, Isabela bursts into the clinic, Fenris in tow.

“You could have knocked.” Hawke buckles her belt into place; the pirate sweeps up and undoes it again. She scowls at her, but Isabela’s busy searching for the resident healer to notice.

“Doors are nothing but an impediment to one such as I. Anders, come on out! Hawke’s not naked any more, if that’s any incentive.”

A muffled expletive comes from one of the back-rooms, and Anders emerges, her armour over his arm.

“Here.” He holds her gear out, and Hawke snatches it to have a look. The metal positively gleams, and the leather is soft and supple. There’s not even any blood stains on it, which is a pleasant surprise.

“Did you polish it? Didn't think mages got taught that.” She tries to imagine Cullen instructing a recalcitrant Anders in the art of armour care, and fails miserably.

“The Warden-Commander made troublemakers polish every single piece of metal in the armoury,” Anders explains as she begins to don her cuirass. “Once Nate and I both did it three times in one week. Oghren claimed he blinded some darkspawn with his plate. I said he probably knocked them out with his drink-breath, and the Warden-Commander made me polish it all again.” He makes a face.

“I’m liking this Hero of Ferelden more and more,” Fenris deadpans.

“She was a very flexible lady, as I recall. I'm rather jealous of our dear King Alistair…” Isabela pauses to think. “Then again, I wouldn’t throw him out of bed either. His… talents would have been absolutely wasted on the Templars.”

“Too much, Isabela,” Hawke eventually manages, after all her armour has been buckled into place. Fenris’ face is priceless.

Isabela only grins. “Any bathwater left for me?” She pads over to check, and makes a face. “Oh, my. Did that all come off you?” The water is indeed putrid, dirty brown with murky black spots.

“Your hair really is brown,” Fenris says. “I thought it was just dirt. You do have less freckles, though.”

Hawke draws a self-conscious hand across her face. “I smell nice. I don’t think I like it.”

“And _that_ is the last favour I am ever doing for the lot of you,” Anders grumbles as he flips her daggers over; she catches them deftly and slides them into their sheaths in a practised motion. Isabela whistles appreciatively.

“Come on, let’s go. I have an appointment with Varric. He might wax lyrical if he sees me clean.” Hawke strides out of the clinic, and the three of them follow, Anders bickering with Isabela about something involving electricity as Fenris watches in bemusement. She smiles, and walks on.


	2. i need a good long sleep when i get home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sister in the Circle and a bed that's too big.

Hawke lasts three days in the estate.

Her mother is a shadow about the place, redirecting her grief into attempts to make the place fit for purpose, aided by Bodahn, Sandal being more of a very sweet hindrance than a help. Hawke likes his company, likes watching him enchant blades with clumsy hands over the edge of a book.

But it's all too grand, too big, too _much_. Her mother burns her old clothes in the open fire and throws her boots out; Hawke goes through the rubbish during the dead of night, cradling the worn leather to her chest as Barkspawn nuzzles into her armpits. The food, made with newly bought wine and cream, is far too rich and she throws up most of it, and when she crawls into her bed, it swallows her whole.

So she flees, and divides her time between Merrill's couch with the rats, a mostly flea-free bed in the Hanged Man, and a cot in the Darktown clinic, chokedamp dreams driving her to distraction. Fenris' mansion is too similar to her own to provide any sort of comfort, and it would probably be against regulations for Aveline to offer her a bed in the barracks, not that she wouldn't do it. Really, though, Hawke doesn't want to inconvenience anyone, and often her nights are spent out under the stars, with only her daggers (and sometimes a corpse or two) for company.

She  finds it funny, though, that now she has more money that she knows what to do with, she has nowhere to lay her head.

It's not truly the opulence of it all (though that does play a part) that's causing her problems. It's Bethany, or more specifically, her absence. As the two girls of the family, she and Bethany always shared a bed, or at the very least a room. When they did have separate beds, Bethany eventually found her way in by her older sister's side, snuffling about mean Fade monsters or complaining about bed bugs because Gamlen insisted on keeping stinky old Qunari cheese right beside their bed.

Hawke can't sleep without her, without her warmth, her long dark hair tickling her under her chin, the quiet rhythm of her slowed breath. It's strange to look over her shoulder and not see her sister at her heels, rolling her eyes at Varric, giggling with Merrill, blushing at Isabela’s innuendoes or tugging distractedly at the blue jigsaw piece around her neck as she thinks thorough their newest problem. It's like… like someone has cut off a part of her and told her to keep going.

She wonders if her sister is having the same trouble sleeping, in with the other apprentices. Hopefully not. Her Harrowing’s coming up soon, from what she’s managed to glean from Cullen, who is more suspicious than ever, brow creased with worried wrinkles. Bethany needs to be ready.

Carver is gone, crushed remnants held down by stones.The last remnant of him lies in his twin’s pocket, a scarlet puzzle piece on a snapped leather cord.

She will not lose Bethany too.

Isabela is the one who eventually notices. Hawke remembers pitching face-first into a tankard of ale, and being carried like a child. Isabela is strong, muscles hidden beneath her polished-wood skin; it was probably her.

When she wakes up, she thinks she's back in the Lowtown hovel, with her dark-haired sister wrapped around her, and for a second she drifts back into beautiful oblivion.

But then the sleeper shifts, and golden eyes flicker open.

"Isabela?" Hawke begins to panic. "W-we-"

"Relax, sweetheart. I know you don't drink from the furry cup." She pairs that with a suggestive eyebrow waggle.

"Ew." Hawke reflexively wrinkles her nose as she catches the pirate's drift.

"Don't knock it until you try it. You just looked so very tired, and, well, I know I always sleep better with a warm body beside me." She pause, and adds; "Or two. Or three, even. Possibly four." Hawke grins, despite herself; Isabela always knows what to say to make it right. "Now, go back to sleep so I can bury my face in your bounteous bosom."

"Bounteous my arse," she mutters; Isabela laughs, and pulls her tighter.

She's not Bethany; she's too wide and broad, too much for that. But her skin is just as dark, and her hair is the exact same shade and length...

Hawke sighs, and lets herself sleep.

 


	3. didn't think you'd show interest in any dance that doesn't end with someone's guts on the floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The birth of Lady Sabia Hawke, complete with dashing prince and several crushed toes.

Hawke lurches through the front door, heedless of the puddles of water in her wake; Orana will have to clean them up, she knows, but she's too busy feeling sorry for herself to feel sorry for anyone else.

She hears a joyful bark as Barkspawn launches himself at her, further ruining her dress and licking mascara off her cheeks. "I'm going to have to marry you," she tells him as he cleans his muzzle on her. "No-one else will have me. Ugh!" She flops back down, hissing as her head cracks off the flags.

She doesn't notice the door opening until Varric's there, hauling Barkspawn off her. "The débutante, home at last!" He takes in her soaking gown. "Did you not take the carriage I sent?"

"Must have ran past it," Hawke mutters, pushing herself up off the floor. Her shoes slip under her as she rises, threatening to trip her up again. "Fuck!" She pulls them off hastily and hurls them into the main room, resulting in a distinctly high-pitched yelp. "Aw, shit. Merrill?"

"Hawke! Does this mean I can have these? They're so pretty..." Merrill absentmindedly rubs a red spot on her forehead as she coos over the slippers, made of cloth-of-gold and studded with tiny pearls.

Hawke stops in her tracks as she enters. Everybody is there, gawking at the lady of the manor; belatedly, she realises that her wet chiffon dress is see-through. Most of them respectfully avert their eyes, except for Isabela, who is staring at her in blatant admiration. "I want to rip that off you," she breathes. "So I can wear it." Anders chokes; Sandal thumps him helpfully on the back.

"You can have it," Hawke grouses. "Not like I'll be needing it anymore." It had been so beautiful, too; white and sleeveless, with a swingy skirt and a golden tree embroidered on it, birds pecking at its high neckline.

"Sabia!" Mother bustles into the room. "Did the party go..." She halts, noticing her daughter's mutinous glare.

"We're going to have to move back in with Gamlen," Hawke declares. "I've ruined any and all prospects we've ever had."

"Surely it wasn't that bad," Aveline says dubiously.

Accepting the shawl Bodahn drapes around her, Hawke grimaces. "Oh, but it was."

She recounts the events of the party from interrupting the announcer as he introduced her ("Hawke, not Amell!") to actually breaking some poor noble boy’s foot during the _courante_ to accidentally spilling Orlesian bloodwine down the host's dress, at which point she was politely ejected from the party. By the time she's finished Fenris is actually full-on laughing, snorting like a dragon, and Sebastian has his hand over his eyes, wincing with every word.

"So then I ran home in the rain, and… well, here I am." Hawke sits back, stretching her feet out towards the fire; Barkspawn helpfully slumps down onto them.

"Did you really point out Duchess di Mersé's wig?" Sebastian asks.

"I thought it was a fashion statement," Hawke says helplessly; the prince groans, and presses his forehead against the table. "Look, I never said I was a lady," Hawke protests. "Whose idea was this, anyway?"

Her mother shrinks back into her seat. "I thought it would be good to introduce you to the noblesse," she ventures. "After all, you can be so very charming..."

"A lot of my charm is killing people that other people want dead. The rest is sarcasm at inappropriate times." Hawke sighs. "I just... I was out of my depth. Bethany would..."

The sentence dies on her lips, because Bethany _would_ ; she would charm them effortlessly, without even thinking about it. Bethany was always the face, the heart; Carver was the broody muscle, and Hawke herself was... just there, clowning around and trying not to interfere too much.

"What Bethany would or would not is irrelevant," Varric tells her. "You're gonna have to brave that pit of vipers again, and sooner rather than later."

"What do you mean?"

"The Viscount's son's birthday is in two weeks," Aveline says grimly. "With all you've done for him, you're sure to get an invite."

Hawke is dumbstruck. "Do you think if I really piss Bran off, I'll be struck off the list? Like..." She thinks. "No, couldn't out Anders. Cullen was making inquiries about a healer in Darktown, last time I talked to him."

The mage in question looks like he's smelt something bad. "I did not need to be reminded of that odious man."

"I'd heard about Bran’s… activities." Isabela nudges him. "Spill."

"You really don't need to know," Anders says with finality; Isabela opens her mouth to argue, but swiftly reconsiders, given the haunted look on Anders' face.

“You’re going to have to go, chick,” Leandra says gently. “All you can do is prepare, and I know if you really try, you’ll have them all wrapped around your little finger.”

Hawke groans. “Prepare? How so? Learn their silly dances, talk with a dumb Hightown accent?” She adopts an overly exaggerated tone, accompanied by fluttery hand gestures. “Ooh, serah, I do apologise fah bahmpeeng eento you! I was fah too busee lookeeng dahn my nose at you!”

“Good, but my Hightown fop impression is better,” Isabela comments.

“Not now, Isabela! ...It is very, good, though,” Aveline concedes. “Hawke, all you really need to know is the etiquette… and perhaps a few dances.”

“Ooh!” Merrill perks up. “Dancing! I’m very good at that. Sandal and I have been practicing, we can teach you.”

“Swingy dance fun!” Sandal concurs. “Teach Hawke like chandelier.”

“So that was where the marks came from! See, Mother, I told you it wasn’t drunk me!” Hawke fixes her mother with a triumphant grin.

“Drunk you already broke my chandelier,” Fenris mutters.

“I wanted to try Bianca out, and it was shiny. Drunk me likes shiny just as much as sober me.”

“It’s very shiny!” Sandal nods.

“See? Sandal gets it.” Hawke slings an arm around him and gives him a squeeze; Sandal happily hugs her back.

Fenris isn’t done. “Broken crystal everywhere. I don’t wear _shoes_ , Hawke. Do you know how painful that was?”

“Then get shoes!” Sandal’s grip is slowly getting tighter, and Hawke is finding it hard to breathe.

Bodahn notices when Hawke begins to go blue. “Sandal, boy, let go of Messere Hawke!”

After they’ve been disentangled, Aveline takes charge. “Are we going to sit here talking until Saemus’s next birthday or what? Sebastian?”

“Hmm?” Sebastian looks up from Barkspawn, who, sensing Hawke’s preoccupation, had sidled over to check if the nice incense-y man had any food.

“You’re… well, more than a noble, actually, but you should know all of this, right?” Aveline inquires

“Yes, I do. I was… never very good at it, though.” He rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed.

“Hmm?” Isabela arches a brow. “Our beloved Chantry brother, turning out to be less than perfect?”

Sebastian stops to think. “Oh, you should know this one,” he eventually says. “Do you remember the Marchesa Apulia? She was the one who had that strange obsession with feathers.”

“Was… was that you?” Isabela seems staggered. “Seduced them out from right under her nose, eh? Oh, I’m jealous. That Borello lady was easily the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. Did she really have her…”

“Pierced? Unfortunately, yes. I would not recommend it."

Hawke pats him tiredly, as Isabela appraises him with new eyes. "Please teach me, Master Prince Brother... How many titles do you have?"

Sebastian looks at her thoughtfully. "Seven, perhaps? Counting that army one."

“You’re hired,” Varric announces, clapping Sebastian’s back, or what of it he can reach. “Let’s start tomorrow, shall we? Hawke’s going to freeze unless we get some brandy into her.”

 

They start  the morning the invite arrives with basic elocution, standing on the upper balcony of the Hawke estate. Her mother is sitting downstairs, eavesdropping as she sews.

“The Prince and I, Hawke, not me and the Prince.”

Hawke scrunches her nose up. “I’ve been trying that one since I was four. No go. My father used to tease me about it… that, and I couldn't pronounce ‘th’.”

“I noticed that. You say de, not the. It’s rather…”

She watches as Sebastian struggles to find the correct adjective. “Backwards. Embarrassing. Fereldan.”

“I was thinking more… authentic, really. You should not try to hide your heritage, Hawke. I do not.”

“Och, aye.” Hawke squints for effect. Sebastian chuckles. “You called a child a bairn the other day. Merrill spent about five minutes searching for cows before Isabela deigned to enlighten her.”

“Is that not a thing-? You’re very good at changing the subject, Hawke.” He glowers at her.

She huffs. “Thought you wouldn't notice. Okay, so. What else is wrong with me?”

 

Next, Sebastian teaches her manners. Not like please and thank you and you’re welcome, because Hawke (mostly) has those down, but when to bow and how to bow and how low to bow, and how to say “no, fuck off” politely (“Thank, you, serah, but I am afraid I am otherwise engaged...”) and what to take for granted (a servant appearing at your elbow to take your coat) and what not to expect, which includes honesty, gratitude, and decent jokes. Sebastian delineates the noble structure of Kirkwall, and when she complains that it’s too complicated he starts trying to explain the Orlesian one, which looks nice and simple to begin with with but turns out to be more twisted than the Deep Roads, so she takes a break, jumps off the balcony and dunks her head in the fountain, because _why_. Why her? She’s no use at this, she’s about as dainty as a carcass and as polite as a beer-fuelled belch. (Her record is 5 seconds, Varric’s is 7 and Merrill puts them all to shame.)

But one day, before they've even begun, she pulls off a perfect, perfect bow, addresses Sebastian using all of his titles (and in the right order!), asks all the right questions and gives all the right compliments; Sebastian plays along, all noble-like. This goes on for half an hour as he imitates various personages, but when she makes her excuses to the Viscount (after a suitable length of time, of course, and with a deep, low bow) he whoops and scoops her up into a hug (and Sebastian does _good_ hugs, leaving her feet dangling above the ground as she squawks with his arms warm round her, tight but not too tight so she still has breath to laugh), because they've done it! She’s done it! She’s a proper lady, with genteel mannerisms and a bell-like laugh-

So he lowers to the ground and whirls her in a spin, and she stumbles straight over her feet and slams head first into the marble floor.

They have to call Anders; he spends five minutes laughing at the sight of her, nose crooked and her blood all over herself and Sebastian, who is apologising repeatedly.

“Well, there’s our next area of concern,” he sighs, as Anders yanks her nose into place.

Hawke spits a glob of blood onto the floor. “Can’t dance without my daggers,” she says resignedly; Anders pinches her lips shut.

“It’s true,” her mother adds, hovering worriedly. “When the twins were young they decided to go climbing trees… Sabia climbed up after them, but she fell off straight away.” She pauses, and adds; “From two feet up. The twins got down themselves.” Her mother’s expression softens. “It was the first time Bethany ever used her magic.”

Hawke remembers; she was rolling around on the ground, because there was a _stone_ in her _knee_ and it _hurt_ , and little Beth clambered over and kissed her knee better, lips glowing with magic, and the pain went away with the stone and the blood and her mother’s smile, as she rushed out and hauled Bethany inside until their father came home.

Carver and Sabia waited outside like the not-so-good kids they were until Father came out of their little house looking pale and old, and he told them that Bethany was like him, that she was magical and they couldn't tell a soul, not the cows grazing in the corner pasture (because Carver used to unload his grievances to them, having realised no-one else was willing to listen) or the wild garlic that tasted nice when you sucked the sap out or even old Miss Errell, the nice lady who hobbled by sometimes and always asked the same three questions.

Hawke, impressed by the gravity of the situation, never did tell anyone. She kept that stone all the way to Ostagar, evidence that her sister was special and no-one could ever know but them. She lost it in the confusion; it fell out of the hilt of her dagger as she used it to cave a hurlock’s skull in.

"There." Anders steps back to admire his handiwork. "Can she wear a helmet to this thing? Because if she's not actively stabbing something, Hawke moves like a farmer who made too much moonshine."

"Have you been watching?" Sebastian says, more than a little acridly; Anders scowls at him.

Sensing an argument (not that she doesn't like arguments, but Anders drags the Chantry into _everything_ and Sebastian never reacts well to criticism of his beloved religion), Hawke intervenes. "Can you two get the ruler out some other time? Because I need to learn how to dance the remigold, possibly in a dress, in _four days_ or I'm going to have to actually wear a helmet to this stupid ball. Can anyone here play anything? I think there's a lute around somewhere."

Anders beats a hasty retreat after that as her mother clucks over her and Sebastian goes in search of said lute.

Suddenly, Orana is beside them; Hawke almost falls out of her chair when she speaks. “Mistress Hawke?”

“Just Hawke, if you please, Orana.”

She nods. “I… I can play the lute, if you would like me to.”

“Oh, Orana, you’re a life-saver! Would you please? The last time I used that lute was to kill a spider." Seeing Orana quail in alarm, she adds; "Don’t worry, I cleaned it off after.”

Orana bows jerkily, and runs off to find Sebastian.

 

Slowly but surely, Sebastian teaches her every single dance he knows, which turns out to be rather a lot. Some of them she knows, like the Fereldan step-dances which involve a lot of swing holds, at which Hawke is an undisputed champion. Others, however, are totally unfamiliar to her, like the rigid, regimented Orlesian dances, or the strange dances of Starkhaven, which, despite being soft-footed, demand an awful lot of jumping and, apparently, used to include swords. Hawke petitions (unsuccessfully) for their re-involvement. Most of their time is spent on the dances of Kirkwall, marching back and forth in waltz time, complete with graceful exchanges. Isabela is roped in to teach her Antivan dance, which doesn't go very well; apparently, garters are a common thing in Antiva, and men make a contest of collecting as many as they can in a night. The dances are designed to cater to this; by the time Isabela’s done with her, Hawke is wearing a lot less clothing than she’d like.

“You could have told me!” Hawke grouses as she pulls her shirt back on.

“You know those Antivans; everything’s about sex with them. What’s your record, Prince?”

“Twenty-two,” Sebastian responds easily. Isabela actually staggers back.

“Why didn't I meet you before you found the Maker?” She actually stamps her foot. “We would have been legendary!”

“There but for His grace go I.”

Isabela makes a face at him. Sebastian only smiles.

 

The night before the big event, Hawke is a ball of nerves, pacing around the house nervously as she mutters, “Step, one-two-three, then… the pastry fork has a wide left tine…”

Her mother follows after her. “Chick, you’ll be fine.”

“No,” Hawke mutters. “I'm going to screw up, because that’s all I ever do.”

“No, you won’t.” Her mother grabs her face and pulls her down. “Sabia Hawke, you are perfect. I should know; I raised you. Now, stop being foolish and go see your friends.”

Hawke nods, throat suddenly tight. “Mother, I…”

“Go on!” Her mother pushes her towards the door. “They’re all waiting for you in the Hanged Man, and I made Varric promise to get it cleaned beforehand.”

The patrons cheer as she enters half an hour later, as per usual; the remnant of night that she, apparently, bought thirty rounds for everyone. Her friends are in residence, arranged around the central table; even Sebastian is there, seated between Anders and Fenris, who are too busy exchanging heated glares to acknowledge this slight.

“Three cheers for the débutante!” Varric raises his mug; the motion is copied around the bar. Hawke curtsies as gracefully as she can.

Isabela claps sharply, and suddenly several musicians slink out of the shadows. “What?” Hawke manages. “Music? In the Hanged Man? Will wonders ever cease?”

“We’re practicing with you!” Merrill trills, popping up beside her. “Come on!”

In a matter of seconds everyone in the pub has paired off, and Hawke finds herself being passed around. Merrill makes her frolic and jump, hopping over tables and onto innocent drinkers; she and Varric shuffle around each other in dizzying circles, and she even has to gall to lift him straight up off the ground at one point. Isabela does dance with her, but is rather too busy trying out her Antivan dances on a sullen Fenris to do too much; instead, she is passed onto Aveline, who turns out to be far more coordinated than her for someone wearing armour. Anders is eventually cajoled onto the floor, but spends most of his time trying to make as little physical contact as humanly (and spiritually) possible; strangely, when he gets stuck with her during the slower songs, he doesn't seem to mind swaying with her.

By the time Sebastian grabs her, it’s late and she’s only barely upright. “My lady Hawke.” He bows. “May I have this dance?”

“Of course you may.” She takes his proffered hand, and they launch off together; she notices that he’s wearing steel reinforced boots.

“A precaution,” he whispers; she snorts.

The floor clears as Sebastian leads her up and down, parting and reuniting in complex patterns that Hawke finally understands. Fenris and Isabela have disappeared off somewhere, Merrill seems to have no notion of disengaging her arms from Varric, and Anders is watching with a odd half-smile.

They conclude with a dramatic dip, Hawke’s hair brushing off the ground. She pokes Sebastian’s chest, and he hauls her back up; their companions applaud them.

“Well, I thought it couldn’t be done,” Varric admits. “But… you did it.”

“Do you think blood mages are susceptible to dancing?” Hawke wonders.

“We’ll consider it,” Anders says gravely.

The lights suddenly extinguish, and before they know it they'll all been turfed out onto the street; Anders slinks off back to Darktown, and after walking a slightly tipsy Merrill back to the Alienage, Hawke accompanies Sebastian back to Hightown in companionable silence.

“Thank you,” she says suddenly. “I never… I never thought I’d be capable of all this. Mother… I didn’t want to disappoint her.”

“You haven’t. She loves you, Hawke.” The moon leaches Sebastian’s eyes of their colour, fading them to a mournful grey. “She is so very proud of you, do you know? She tells everyone all the stories; Varric has them written down.”

Hawke groans. “Oh, no. Really?”

“I quite liked the one where you stopped all the cattle from stampeding into the Chantry. Rather brave, when I think about it, facing down all those angered bovine stares.”

She stops dead in the middle of the road. Sebastian never does this. “Are you quite alright? I think we should get Anders to check you out.” Sebastian grumbles incoherently. “Oh, he’s not so bad.”

“I rather think he is.” The words are cold, but not unfeeling. “That is to say, I…” He lets out a frustrated sigh. “Hawke, I owe you this, as a friend. That man is dangerous. He may not look it, but… there is something broken inside him, and I am afraid you cannot fix it.”

“Or perhaps I can.” She starts walking again.

“Hawke.” His voice is pleading.

“Not tonight, Sebastian. Please.”

After a long moment of heavy silence, she hears him clank towards her.

When they reach the Chantry, they part wordlessly.

 

Her mother takes charge of the preparations for the actual event; Hawke is forcibly bathed with smelly floral oils, and her hair is fashioned into some semblance of respectability with the aid of copious hairpins. Her mother even gets some make-up on her, kohl and lipstain and rouge. Hawke makes faces at herself in the mirror and tries not to smear it all.

Finally, just before they’re due to leave, Hawke emerges, doing her best to navigate the flight of stairs down to the hall where Sebastian awaits. Resplendent in a red suit trimmed with white, he is rendered speechless.

The dress is pure white, and at first glance looks modest enough; it is high-necked, with a floor-length skirt and tails of wing-like fabric that drape back over the shoulders. It does, however, lack any sort of back, exposing dark freckled skin cleaved with scars. Her mother loans her a necklace, and Hawke puts it on backwards; she does it accidentally at first, but decides to leave it like that after seeing the tiny prismatic patterns the diamonds cast on her spine when they catch the firelight. Two daggers have been strapped discreetly to her thighs, with her puzzle piece necklace looped around one of them; two barely-visible slits have been added to her skirt to allow her access, should she need them.

“I look like an idiot,” Hawke says regretfully. “I _feel_ like an idiot. I mean-” she flaps her arms wildly, making the drapes flow out behind her;  “Look at that! What am I, a bird?”

“I think that’s the idea, Hawke.” Sebastian offers her his arm. “Shall we?”

 

Her entrance is greeted with considerable interest; few know the short woman on the Prince of Starkhaven’s arm with the awkward smile and scarred hands. As the Viscount and his son greet her personally, Saemus shaking her hand with considerable enthusiasm, Hawke hears the whispering rise in volume.

“They’re talking about me,” Hawke mutters out of the corner of her mouth.

“They’re nobles,” Sebastian says, somehow managing to keep his lips perfectly still as he nods graciously at some dowager. “That’s what they do.”

As it turns out, he is correct; gliding through the room, Hawke picks up snippets of information that would be worth their weight in gold to the right person. She has very little to do, luckily enough; Sebastian is an expert at the whole meeting and greeting thing, making innocuous conversation and leaving gaps for her to fill with witty remarks, which she has no problem with.

The smiles grow steadily less fake as they make their way around, and Hawke feels a flare of satisfaction; if anyone here witnessed the bloodwine incident, it has been wiped from their memory. She spots Aveline at one point, mediating a dispute over the punch bowl; she slips her a quick grin.

Sebastian elbows her discreetly as she discusses the condition of the shipping lanes on the Wounded Coast with an unusually skinny merchant. "The Knight-Commander! She's heading towards- oh no, towards us... I'll handle this. Knight-Commander." Sebastian pastes a courteous smile onto his face and kisses Meredith's gauntleted fingers. "I heard you have been ill, lately. I do hope you are feeling better."

Meredith's lip twists, just for a second, before she presses her mouth into a tight line. "Thank you for your concern, your highness, but I am fine. There was a small problem with the lyrium supply, but it has since been resolved. And your companion... Serah Hawke, I assume."

"You are correct, Knight-Commander." Hawke bows, and attempts a charming smile.

"I thank you for your assistance in that... incident involving Ser Keran. Knight-Captain Cullen spoke highly of you." The look on Meredith's face implies that he possibly said more.

"Speaking of the Knight-Captain... I thought he would attend with you, Knight-Commander. Is he well? One does hear rumours..." Sebastian peers around ostentatiously, but Cullen is conspicuously absent.

"He was right beside me... Where has that man gone?" Meredith almost snarls.

"I think that might be him." Hawke indicates a knot of cooing women in the centre of the room; sure enough, after a few seconds, poor Cullen pops up in their midst, curly hair disordered and face flaming red. A triumphant lady waves a black Templar sash.

Meredith sighs as the bell rings. "I shall see you again, serah Hawke. Your highness." She turns on her heel after a curt salute to go rescue her subordinate, and Sebastian and Hawke answer the bell's call to dinner.

The food is ridiculously good, and she resolves to slip into the kitchens at some point to interrogate the cook. Sebastian watches her devour the food with amusement.

“You eat like you haven’t in days,” he remarks, pushing his plate away as Hawke digs into her third serving of dessert, a confection of coffee and chocolate and cake.

“I haven’t,” she responds, swallowing as delicately as she can, which isn’t very delicately at all. “I was worried about fitting into this damned dress.” The bell rings before Sebastian can respond, calling people to the ball room.

“Finish your cake- no, don’t bring it with you!” He removes it from her with an exasperated sigh. “Don’t you want to show off the fruits of your efforts?”

“Dancing. Oh.” She clings to the chair like a man drowning. “Perhaps not.” Sebastian, hands on hips, gives her a reproving glare. “Oh, fine. We’re sitting the _tourdion_ out, though.”

He does not deign to respond as he leads her out onto the floor, settling into position as the first strains of the music begin.

Hawke remains with Sebastian for no more than two dances, as is proper; she does not lack for partners thereafter. Man after man passes through her white-knuckled grip, including the Viscount and his son, Seneschal Bran, Hubert, Ghyslain de Carrac (apparently on the hunt for another wife), Brett Harimann and far more scions than she can even begin to list. She's too busy concentrating on not tripping over herself to notice the time pass until suddenly the final dance is called, and Sebastian is leading her again.

"Well? How did I do?" she queries.

"A magnificent performance, my lady. Your poor mother will be positively swimming in proposals for her lovely daughter."

"Good! We won't have to buy firewood this month."

Sebastian shakes his head with a fond grin. "You are something else, Hawke." He pauses, steps stuttering as they weave back and forwards, fingers barely touching. "I... I owe you an apology."

"For what? I know you accidentally shot me instead of that Qunari the other day, but I already have a scar there, so it's fine."

"No! Well, I apologise for that too, but… what I said last night. It was... rude, and unthinking. Anders is..." He struggles silently for a few seconds. "No truly evil man would heal the entire Undercity for nothing. Even though he is an apostate, he is, technically, abiding by the Chant. I just... I worry."

"Of course you do. So do I. Anders is... You were correct in your concern." She gives him a sad smile. "All we can do is our best, and that was all you were trying to do. It's fine."

He gives her a wry look. "Have you ever considered joining the Chantry? We could use you in the confession box."

"Only if they let Barkspawn join too."

"He might be less dogmatic than Mother Petrine," he mutters.

Hawke lets out an undignified guffaw. " _Dog_ matic. Varric would be proud."

"Your ability to make a joke out of everything will never fail to astound me."

She spins away from him and bows as the dance concludes, the ballroom bursting into applause.

  
(Sure enough, the proposals begin to arrive the very next day; her mother saves a few, but Hawke uses the rest for target practice.)


	4. well, good thing they were drunk then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris tries to carry Hawke, Hawke tries to carry Fenris, and it all goes to shit. What else is new?

As the black of the night slowly begins to lift, Lowtown starts to quieten down. The Hanged Man closed its doors half an hour ago, and even the streetwalkers have retreated. They're the only people awake, herself and Fenris, and she's very close to sleep, despite the throbbing headache forming at the base of her skull; a mixture of alcohol and Fenris dropping her earlier.

Said elf staggers sideways into a brick wall; Hawke slides out of his arms and lands with a thump on her arse, tail-bone cracking with pain.

“That’s the second time you've dropped me!” she complains.

“You’re heavy, and I'm drunker than you.”

“Yeah, but I'm a lightweight, so I'm drunkerer than you.” She screws her nose up. “Drunkerer? Is that a word?”

“No.” Fenris goes to pick her up again; she bats his hands away.

“I am an independent woman and I don’t need no… shit. Fuck, Fenris, help me up.”

He extends a reluctant hand; instead, Hawke grabs his arm and hauls herself up like a toddler learning to walk. Fenris tilts alarmingly sideways, and Hawke only barely manages to scoop him up before he falls over, careening backwards.

“You wear an awful lot of metal. Why do you wear so much metal? Fenris, you’re stabbing my boob.”

He shifts uncomfortably. “I wouldn't be stabbing you if you weren't carrying me.” He mutters something else after the sentence; Hawke secures her grip on him, and he gives a yelp.

“What did you say?” She pushes her face very close to his, grinning maniacally.

He looks away from her. “Not like you have much boob to stab.” He’s blushing, probably more alcohol induced than anything, but still.

“Just because I'm not Isabela! ‘Oh, my back hurts, just let me stretch… whoops, was that a nipple?’”

He groans indistinctly. “Can we not discuss Isabela’s breasts? She does enough of it already.”

“True.” She hitches Fenris up and continues on. The stairs up to Hightown seem to get further and further away with every teetering step, mind heavy with rat-piss whiskey and arms full of a dozing elf who keeps mumbling in Tevene.

“Hawke,” Fenris breathes into her breastplate.

“Hmm?” The alley is dark around her, the only thing moving the dust stirred by her footsteps.

“Dog Lords.”

He is right; when she sneaks a surreptitious glance to her left, a pair of canine eyes gleam at her from the gloom. Shit. Fenris is unarmed; greatswords were banned from the Hanged Man after an incident with a very angry Fenris and one poor mage. There are two slim knives strapped to her thighs, small little things intended to be slipped between ribs and left there, not for open combat like her sturdier daggers.

After a few seconds of debate, her mind beginning to sharpen with her dear friend adrenaline, she decides on a plan. “Get a smoke bomb.”

Slowly, Fenris sneaks a hand between their bodies to her belt and extricates a bomb, turning into Hawke’s body and hiding it. “Weapons?”

“There’s a knife on my leg. Pretend like you’re groping me and get it. Is your aim any good?”

Fenris nods, and, after a moment's hesitation, slowly slides a hand down her leg; Hawke lets out a breathy, false, giggle as she feels the knife slide out of its sheath and up into Fenris’ sleeve. She swings him down out of her arms and embraces him, pressing her forehead to his. "The leader. That guy, with the scarred eye."

The air stills as with a quick flick of Fenris’ wrist, the knife embeds itself in the leader’s forehead; a rumble of confusion spreads throughout the group. Fenris slams the smoke bomb into the ground as she draws the second dagger and throws; the knife finds its mark, felling a mage. Fenris dives into the fray and re-emerges with a sword, just as Hawke disarms an assassin and guts him in one fluid, simple movement. They make quick work of the remainder as the smoke slowly dissipates; Fenris is not hindered by his inability to use his lyrium abilities for fear of being seen. By the time the air has cleared, all that’s left are the mabari; Hawke closes her eyes as she slashes their necks open, their death whines piercing one of the few soft parts of her left.

“Let’s get out of here before the next group arrives,” she pants, lurching to Fenris’s side, having retrieved her gore-covered knives and cleaned them as best she could; he drops his borrowed sword with a clatter, and wipes a bloody hand across his eyes.

“Agreed,” is all he says before he sweeps her up into his arms and runs, taking the steps two at a time as the baying of dogs sounds behind them.

 

“Why do you always attract trouble?”

Hawke’s eyes flicker open; Fenris is glowering down at her, blood smeared across his face. They are safe in Hightown, surrounded by white brick walls, but she doesn't think that walking is an option for her unsteady legs right now, so Fenris is acting as her unwilling steed. The adrenaline from the fight is beginning to wear off and leave her sleepier than ever, and she nuzzles into Fenris, who makes a disgusted noise.

“They like my perfume.”

“You don’t own perfume.”

“Excuse you! I wear my own distinctive mix; _eau de_ cadavers _et un peu_ wet dog. Very enticing.”

Fenris sniffs her and grimaces. “Why do all you Fereldans smell of dog? Even the Knight-Captain. It’s off-putting, to say the least.”

“Leave poor Cullen out of this.” She kicks his leg, and Fenris lets her loll sideways; she clings onto him with a shriek. “That was a dick move!”

“I am a dick,” Fenris assures her.

“Isabela said as much,” Hawke grimaces; Fenris tries to drop her again, but, seeing as she is gripping onto his neck as tight as she possibly can, only succeeds in strangling himself.

A guard approaches them. "Serah Hawke? Are you alright?" He shoots Fenris, blood-spattered as he is, a dubious look.

"I'm fine, Guardsman... Ricken, isn't it? If someone finds a pile of dead bodies in Lowtown, it was us, but they attacked us first,"

The guard backs away, nodding bemusedly, and makes a hasty exit, presumably to send word to his comrades in Lowtown.

"You need to stop intimidating people," she admonishes, poking Fenris' breastplate. "Even Aveline can turn her scary guardsmom mode off. You're just... Scowly. Constantly."

"And how do you propose I do that?" His voice is scathing. "Wear flowers? Trip over everything? Act like an airhead?"

"No, you don't need to be Merrill. I mean, you could just smile a little more often. You have a very nice smile, you know. It makes me want to smile back. And..." She considers him, with his eyebrows drawn together and mouth scrunched up tight, hair falling into his face. "I have an idea!"

" _Venhedis_!" Fenris manages as she scrabbles at her ponytail to find a spare hair-tie (she generally wears about five, in the vague hope that at least one will do its job and keep her hair in place) and, after a great deal of hissing, wrangling, spitting, cursing and staggering (they are both, after all, very drunk) she manages to scrape most of his hair into a stubby little tail. The effect is immediate. For some reason, it's difficult to take anyone seriously, even a very angry elf who can rip people's hearts out of their chest without any difficulty, when they have the same hairstyle as a toddler.

"I look like Anders." If looks could kill, Hawke's funeral would have been a week ago.

"You're adorable!" She brushes her fingers over his bare forehead, smiling; a few white strands have escaped, and he blows them irritably out of the way. She licks her thumb and scrubs some of the worst bloodstains off his cheeks. "Hey, you can see where you're going now!"

" _Vishante kaffas_." He bats her mothering hand away.

"No, thank you."

He spends the rest of the walk mumbling half-heartedly in Tevene (she catches a few more swear words, and resolves to try them out on Isabela) before they reach the estate and he deposits her like a sack of potatoes on the doorstep; he careers away back to his own mansion without ringing the doorbell, and the next morning Bodahn almost steps on an insensible Hawke when he goes out to collect the milk.

 

The next time they confront the Dog Lords, Fenris ties his hair back.

 


	5. you were gonna do that anyway, right?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke tells a story; for once, Varric listens.

They have to pry her off her mother's body.

Hawke has never been so still. She kneels on the rug before the fire, staring blankly into the flames. Her friends take it in turns to watch her; Aveline only barely arrives in time to stop her from reaching into the grate. Her hands blister, but she refuses to call Anders.

She does not acknowledge them, not the ewer of water kept full to the brim as her lips dry and crack with the heat of the fire, not the trays of food that are left to congeal and cool, not their worries, not their words and caresses or even their tears, when Merrill curls up beside her and sheds all the tears that Hawke cannot.

She feels empty, like a blackened and burned hull. She wonders if this is what Fenris' victims feel like, when he divests them of their internal organs.

When it is Varric's second turn to keep watch over her, he arrives to find the room empty of her, her daggers and her armour. Barkspawn whines at the rug his mistress has vacated, and Varric calls a manhunt.

Despite the force scouring for her (the seven of them, her uncle and the servants, half the city guard and even a contingent of Templars sent with a hysterical Bethany), they find neither hide nor hair of her. She is not hidden in one of Hightown's spires, nor in the warrens of the Undercity; they crack open every box in the Docks, fearful of what they will find, and Cullen swears that no woman matching her description has passed through the Gallows. None of her employees in the Bone Pit have seen her, no Qunari in the Wounded Coast have taken her captive, and the Dalish camp on Sundermount is too peaceful for her to have been anywhere in it's vicinity. Hawke has simply disappeared.

After five long days of fevered search, they sit around a table in the Hanged Man, staring at each other despondently; Isabela is stone cold sober, and Anders shocks anyone who comes too near him.

She reappears that night after everyone else has left, wild eyed as she paces around Varric's suite.

"Hawke?"

"Varric? Varric." Hawke continues to pace frantically, boots clicking against the floor.

"Maker's breath." Varric gapes at her. "Are you-"

"No." She laughs desperately. "No, I'm not. Can I tell you a story?"

He stays silent.

"It's a good one, I promise. Not as good as one of yours, but-"

"I'm all ears, Hawke."

Suddenly, she stops and stands stock still, staring at her shaking hands. A long moment passes, her breath speeding up as the shakes spread slowly from her hands upwards, through her shoulders and into her chest; when she speaks, the words are strangled and strange, dipping up and down like boats on a turbulent sea. "We never had much money growing up, you know. We scraped by, but... Bethany never wore something I hadn't already, and the only jewellery I ever recall Mother having was her wedding band.

"But one year, Father got us a surprise. A present. He carved it himself, out of ash wood from the grove behind the Chantry, and Mother painted it. She made the paints from crushed flowers from our garden. Bethany was... we'd never had a toy that wasn't something else before. I used to make our stockings into puppets and act out all the old stories, like Calenhad and the Black Fox. This was something new, something wholly ours, never anyone else's."

Her fingers worry at her necklace, a single white puzzle piece on a leather cord. "A jigsaw?"

She nods jerkily. "It took us weeks to put it together; Carver and I never agreed on what went where, and Bethany just wanted to put the colours together as prettily as possible. But we got it done, and the picture..." She stops, words jamming in her throat. "The courtyard," she says roughly. "In the Amell estate. She even got the brickwork right, and the exact shade of the laburnum. I didn't recognise it until we walked in that first day, with all our worldly possessions on our backs and the tears still drying on my mother's cheeks. She... she sacrificed so much for us. Sometimes, I think she might have led a happier life if she'd never crossed paths with Father."

"Hawke, she loved you. All of you. Equally."

"I _know_ , it's just..." Hawke rubs her eyes forcefully, smearing her tears into the dirt on her face. "She'll never call me chick again," she says brokenly. "And it's my fault. It's all my fault- if I'd told her about the lilies, if I'd defended Carver from that blasted ogre like I was supposed to, if I'd never been born in the first place-!"

"Hawke!" Varric grabs her hands and pulls, her nails dragging bloody trails down her cheeks. "No. This is not your fault. The blame is on that monster's shoulders."

Hawke's knees give out; she kneels on the carpet, eye-to-eye with Varric. "She made the necklaces, you know," she whispers, after a long, long moment. "When Carver and I enlisted. She gave one each to the three of us, and kept one for herself. 'A piece of home,' she said."

Her head dips, as if her neck is too weak to hold it up. "Beth has Carver's. I tried to stop her from going to him - what was left of him - but she went and closed his eyes and took his necklace while that woman watched. And now..." She rummages in her pocket and pulls out a yellow puzzle piece, hanging off a snapped leather cord. She examines it for a long while, brushing the surface with her thumb. "Father made me promise to protect them. They fought so hard to keep Bethany from the Templars, to keep us safe, and now..."

Hawke begins to cry in earnest, fat tears rolling down her cheeks, painful sobs tearing her throat; Varric simply sits down beside her, rubbing circles on her back like her mother used to, and waits for the storm to pass.

 

She convenes them the next day in front of the Chantry, and gives them no time to spout platitudes before she's dragging them off to meet with the Arishok; her smile is brittle and her laughter a little too loud, but she squeezes his shoulder as she passes, and he knows that in the end, she'll be alright.


	6. it’s been mostly humans barking at me here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barkspawn gets sick, and Merrill saves the day.

"... yours not very sincerely, Champion Sabia Hawke. P.S.: Your son looks like a piece of mouldy cheese. Stop trying to marry him off to me, I don't want him either."

The estate is dark as Hawke lowers her pen and rubs her face tiredly, leaving streaks of ink across her eyes. Orana, Bodahn and Sandal are fast asleep as their mistress catches up on the correspondence that has built up into a heaving paper monster over the course of a few months, snarling at her from her dusty desk. It was too raw to see all those black notes of condolence, so she simply left them be. Only Sebastian’s gentle prodding made her get started on answering them all as politely and as genuinely as she could, which is difficult; her mother was always better with words, wrapping up simple responses in verbose bows. Hawke’s writing is illegible, let alone the actual content, which is mostly incoherent and rude. They called her Champion for murdering things, not for scribing.

A canine sigh catches her attention; Barkspawn is snoozing before the dying fire, powerful chest heaving. "Here, boy." Barkspawn lifts an eyelid and whines. "Oh, come on, you big fat lump. I'm right here!"

The parchment crackles beneath her hands as she shifts, reaching her fingers out to her dog as she leans back in her chair. He snuffles slightly at her, but droops back down again.

"Barkspawn?" Hawke vacates her chair to hunker down beside him, caressing his stubby ears. "Are you alright?"

He looks at her sadly, brown eyes dim. When she listens, his breathing is laboured, and when she catches a glance at his bowl it is half-full.

Hawke runs frantic hands over him, feeling the bulk of his neck, his trunk, his hindlegs; there are no contusions or bumps, no open gashes and weeping sores. Panic builds as she presses an ear to his chest to hear his heartbeat which, to her horror, is slightly more sluggish than usual.

“Oh, no.” Hawke cradles Barkspawn’s massive head in her lap; he wags his tail slightly, as if telling her not to worry. “What am I…?”

What doe she always do when she’s hurt? Go to Anders. She’s see him heal Barkspawn before, fixing gashes on his muzzle and sore paws, and he even put up with the hound’s slobbery thank-yous after.

“Let’s go visit Anders. I know it stinks down there, but you’ll have to put up with it.” She heaves Barkspawn up into her arms with a little difficulty. “Andraste’s tits! You weigh as much as a Qunari, you fatass!” Barkspawn huffs, insulted.

The passage from the cellar into Darktown is dank, torches unlit, but Hawke does not stop to light them. Puddles, whether of water or of something more sinister, splash beneath her heedless feet; Barkspawn’s head lolls into her chest, and her panic spikes.

She skids into the clinic a few minutes later, almost bowling over an old man in the process; normally, she would apologise, but worry drives her in a beeline to Anders, who is staring at her in confusion from beside his examination table. She lays Barkspawn on it carefully.

“Hawke, what…?”

“He’s sick.” Her voice is higher than usual; she sees a woman stir on one of the cots.

Anders places his hands on Barkspawn, and begins to cast. Barkspawn lets out a pained yelp as the glow intensifies, and Anders yanks his hands away from the dog as if burned.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Something’s wrong, but… I don’t know.”

She gapes at him; she’s never seen Anders fail to heal someone before. “What do you mean?”

“I was taught to heal humans. Not animals.” Anders scratches behind Barkspawn’s ear, and the mabari sighs heavily in response. “Cuts, broken bones… they don't differ much from animal to animal, whether it’s a cat or a human or a bird, but for something more serious, you need intimate knowledge of that being’s anatomy. If I tried to heal Barkspawn as I would a human, I would risk doing serious damage to him, and as far as I can tell, he’s pretty sick already.” He gives her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Hawke. I can't help you.”

“What am I going to do?” Hawke presses her hands to her eyes.

Whatever Anders was going to say is interrupted by the door banging open; a man is hauled in, blood staining his shirt, braced by two younger boys. A woman frets behind them. Hawke pulls Barkspawn off the table as Anders goes to his patients.

“Can I-”

“It’s fine, Hawke. I’ve got this under control.” He takes the man from the two boys, heedless of the blood spattering his shirt. “You worry about Barkspawn. He’s saved my life enough times; he deserves that much.”

Hawke nods, picks her dog up again, and leaves; the woman’s sobs echo in her ears.

Once outside the clinic, Hawke sinks to her knees. Barkspawn is wheezing now, chest heaving under the effort of breathing. She leans her head against his, and he licks her half-heartedly.

She doesn’t know how long she sits there, curled up with her mabari. Some Champion she is, she can’t even help her pet…

“Hawke? Are you asleep?”

Large green eyes peer down at her, framed by curling green tendrils. “Merrill?”

“Oh, good! You’re awake. Not a great place to take a nap, Darktown, take it from me.”

“What are you…?” Night has well and truly fallen. Unless Merrill needs Anders’ assistance...

“Deathroot!” Merrill shows her a clump of greens, dirt still hanging off them. Oh, Hawke thinks. Of course. “It likes growing in the corner over behind those stairs. Hello, Barkspawn!” The dog doesn’t even respond; the vallaslin on Merrill’s forehead crinkles as she frowns in confusion. “Oh, no. Is he sick?”

Hawke nods wordlessly. "Anders couldn't help me. I..."

"I bet they didn't teach him animal healing in the Circle. Very narrow minded. As for me-" Merrill threads her arms under the dog's massive bulk, and heaves; Hawke helps, lacing her fingers with Merrill's and lifting. "Well, we Dalish try to help any animals we see injured in the woods, and wolves are not so different from mabari."

"By the Maker, Merrill, if you can fix Barkspawn I will buy you a golden ball of thread."

"Done!" She smiles. "Just as well. The one Varric gave me ran out."

How they managed to get the dog to Lowtown, Hawke does not recall; Merrill has gotten lost often enough in the city that she knows each and every nook and cranny and alley and surmountable wall in Kirkwall, wending her way through paths that Hawke never even knew existed. Not a soul is awake in the Alienage, and the stars glint through the canopy of the vhenadahl like jewels, casting cold light on the swirls and whorls engraved in its trunk.

Merrill's little house is as clean as it usually is, which is to say, not very. It is not dirty, nor is it squalid, but there is a healthy coating of dirt on most everything, and the books seem to be arranged by colour. Organised chaos, Hawke thinks dumbly, helping Merrill as she spreads a patterned blanket on the floor and lays Barkspawn carefully on it, crooning to him in elvhen, as is her wont.

Merrill proceeds to enact a through external examination of the hound. She lifts his ears and peers inside as if she could see his brain, and opens his jaw to check behind his pointed canines and under his tongue. She examines his eyes and smells his nose and looks in the dips between his pawpads. At one point, she even raises his tail.

"Could you not do that to my dog?" Hawke protests weakly.

"Just taking his temperature!" Merrill responds cheerily, lowering his tail with a pat on his rump. "Hmm."

Hawke redirects her attention to Barkspawn, gazing into his dull, half-lidded eyes, as Merrill bustles around, clanking jars and tins. She trails a finger down the wide scar that bisects his haunches, a remnant of his litter days.

Merrill returns with a bag of salts. "Hold that under his nose," she instructs; Hawke does as she's told, and as she wafts them under his nose, Barkspawn's eyelids droop until he is fully asleep, breath slowing.

Merrill places his hands on him, and concentrates. Hawke watches; the feeling of magic grates against her senses. Merrill's smells like damp earth and freshly fallen rain, whereas Anders' smells like someone set him on fire. Bethany always smelled like baking bread when she was doing magic, and her father... Ozone, like the air after a storm. The scent clung to him, even when she knew it had been weeks since he picked up his staff.

Merrill's fingers flex and contract, and her words are foreign to Hawke- well, more foreign than usual. A sense of unease crawls down the back of her spine. "Is that blood magic?"

"Technically, it's keeper magic, but..." Merrill bites her lip. "All I am doing is manipulating the blood in his body to feel out any problems. Far more accurate than creation magic, and utterly harmless if you know what you're doing... Which I do, luckily for you!"

"So, I won't owe my dog's life to a demon?"

"Nope! Just me. Which is more than Anders can say." Merrill gives her a sunny smile, and Hawke snorts, and feels her lips twitch up. It feels... strange, to say the least. Smiles have been thin on the ground; losing her mother, the death of the Viscount, and the whole Qunari affair... It all took a toll on Hawke. After the duel with the Arishok, she was bed-bound for a month. Merrill visited sometimes, slipping in through the window and bringing the garden inside, presenting her with newly sprouted daffodils.

"Ah! There we go." Merrill's hands glow red, casting a bloody shine on Barkspawn's dappled coat. "A bit of him was growing too fast. We're lucky we caught it this early, because it might have spread. Now, I'm afraid this might hurt..." Merrill draws a glyph on Barkspawn's side with her finger. Barkspawn's breathing grows laboured as it forms, until it disappears with a squelching noise and he awakens with a pained yelp. "There! All done," Merrill declares, patting Barkspawn's head. "Don't you feel better now, my brave boy?" She spends several minutes extolling the hound's virtues, much like Hawke has seen Anders do with small children, sniffling after a scary injection. It must work; his ears perk up, and he wuffs quietly when Hawke scratches under his jaw, tail thumping reassuringly.

"I can't thank you enough, Merrill."

She waves a dismissive hand. "Isn't that what friends are for, lethallan?" The word falls easily from Merrill's tongue; Hawke looks at her in shock. On one stormy night, they got caught on Sundermount; the Dalish grudgingly sheltered them, and Hawke stayed up half the night in conversation with the hahren. He told her about the elven pantheon, the fragments of language they had left, and of their plight; the story stuck in Hawke’s mind, and she scribbled what she could remember of it in her journal after. Merrill grins. "I think you've earned that by now."

Hawke feels another smile form on her lips, and resolves to spend more time with Merrill.

In a matter of minutes, Barkspawn's eyes slide shut, and he slips into sleep. Hawke's worries are allayed when he begins to twitch and let out muffled barks in his usual way; doggy daydreams, her mother used to call them, and Bethany would wonder what he was chasing. Carver said rabbits, but Hawke always said birds.

A yawn catches her unawares. Merrill giggles and says; "You can stay here, if you like."

"I think I just might. Your rats are far cuddlier than the ones in the Hanged Man."

Ten minutes later, they have a nest of blankets and pillows arranged around Barkspawn, before the smouldering coals in the hearth. There's slightly stale bread and soft cheese and two steaming cups of nettle tea, warm and stingy.

“How old is he?” Merrill asks, smoothing a hand down his neck.

“Hmm… seven, perhaps?” She pokes his belly. “You’re getting old! And fat.” Barkspawn huffs sleepily.

“How did you get him, anyways? Varric says mabari are very expensive, and Barkspawn’s a beautiful specimen!” Merrill waves a bit of cheese in front of him; he cracks an eye, but closes it again, too tired for even food. Shrugging, Merrill pops it into her mouth.

“Well…” Hawke slumps down into the blankets. “It was about a year after my father died... Arl Bryland was fostering one of Arl Wulff’s sons, I think, and said son got a little fresh with Bethany last market day. In the course of my duty as overprotective older sister, I decided to scare the lad off, so I snuck into the Arl's manor to pay a little midnight visit.”

“Why didn’t Carver do it?” Merrill blinks at her. “I thought that would be more his thing, as her twin.”

Hawke snorts. “Carver would have cut his balls off. I only threatened to. It all went well, anyways. He was most courteous to Beth after that. The trouble came when I was sneaking out through the kennels. It was fine on the way in; the litter was fast asleep around their mother, but the second time… one was awake.”

“And he imprinted on you!”

“Of course he did. No animal, human or beast, can resist my myriad charms!” Hawke strikes a silly pose, and Merrill titters. “He got out of that pen and stuck to me like glue, and no matter how many times I put him back in he managed to wriggle back out again. I ended up tying the poor thing to a post and running as fast as I could. I even ran through the river so he couldn’t track me. Can you imagine that? The height of winter, and me lurching through the fields in the middle of the night, sodden to the skin!”

“It didn’t work, did it?” Merrill’s gaze is full of admiration for Barkspawn. “He’d never abandon you.”

“Loyal to a fault.” She pats him. “I woke up the next morning with a faceful of stinky mabari puppy. I almost had a conniption. Bad enough that I broke into the Arl’s manor; stealing one of his prize mabari hounds could have gotten me in serious trouble. I could have been blinded, they could have cut off my hand, and if the arl was in a very bad mood, he could have me buried alive. I had to do something, so I went back to Bryland’s manor with _my_ tail between my legs and this fella on a lead with _his_ tail wagging away to beat the band, and told him the whole thing.”

“What did he do?” Merrill is rapt, green eyes wide.

“He heard me out, and… apologised for his foster's behaviour, and gave me the dog as recompense for the damage done to Bethany’s reputation. He owed father, you see; he saved that boil-brained daughter of his when she was a babe.”

“So you took him home?”

“He was a bit runty at first, but he grew… and grew, and grew. I’ve seen horses smaller than him! He was a great help during the night; he watched the farm while I was working in the Refuge.” Hawke chucks him under the chin. "And you've seen his hamstring-ripping trick. Very handy against the Qunari."

Merrill begins to say something, but a yawn cuts her off; she looks apologetically at Hawke. "Sorry. I stayed up late... um, reading last night."

Which is to say, she stayed up late gazing into the Eluvian. Hawke decides not to take the bait."I fell asleep early, and I'm wrecked." She stretches. "I think I might turn in." She draws a blanket over herself, and curls up with Barkspawn like she used to during the winter.

"Goodnight, lethallan." Merrill gives Barkspawn a final pat.

"'Night, Merrill." Sleep, already fraying the edges of her consciousness, claims her entirely.

She wakes up during the night to find Merrill fast asleep, tucked into her side, hair loose of braids. Barkspawn is sprawled across the both of them, drooling happily on Hawke's thigh. She sighs, pulls Merrill a little closer, and goes back to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawke keeps ending up in bed with girls. I think she’s trying to tell me something.


End file.
